Above Ground

by Clint Smith

A man is killed by a drone that thinks his jug of water is a bomb.

and what a joy it is to be somewhere that is not with you but still with you and

Some days, I am afraid that I am more kindling than water.

We are not all left standing after the war has ended. Some of us have become ghosts by the time the dust has settled.

pulled from the spaces between his father’s name.

When I speak to my son I carry the echo of generations. Of men attempting to unlearn the anger on their father’s tongues, the heat in their hands.

in hopes of tracing the shadow of someone else’s tongue.

Because when I read you poems I love you always close your eyes

Because I like my cinnamon rolls with maple syrup and honey mustard and you still kiss me in the morning.

That I no longer know the city I have always worn like a tattoo. I still remember the city as something it was kept from becoming. I am still looking for a language not covered in mud.

This is where your grandmother made biscuits and sacrifices. This is where I learned that I hadn’t made enough.

It’s so hard to be honest about the changing contours of your past with- out the sky murmuring under its breath.

I run four times a week but usually it’s away from something.

you ask me what poets write poems about.

Searching for something to tell you that you are what you have always been to me.